


The Cat's Pajamas

by chewysugar



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: Explicit Language, Friendship, Gen, Post-Credits, Spoilers, character perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:39:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22624174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: What would a post-credits scene have looked like, anyway?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 101





	The Cat's Pajamas

Wrapping the whole story up in under two hours ain’t as easy as it looks. We shoulda had a little something special after the drive off into the sunset. But hey. The big dudes with the bucks still have to control somethin’ to make up for having itty bitty little man parts. Looks like I’ll have to take to the good old Internet to tie up one loose end. And don’t worry, ladies, gentlemen and those who don’t identify—there’s a hot tamale in this postscript. 

Picture this—fifteen minutes after Cass and I pull a Ginger Spice. I know, I know—it’s sadder than a kicked puppy listening to Adele. If you fell asleep during the story—stepped out to take a leak, got some more Maltesers or were too busy jackin' it in a movie theater, I won't shame ya. ‘Cept maybe for that last part. 

Anyway. Me. Cass. Canary’s bodacious yellow (har-dee-fucking-har) wheels. Open streets. Sunshine. The smell of Gotham: concrete, sweat, pollution and bodily secretions. A beautiful beginning. 

I’ve got the steering wheel gripped tighter than the Boston Strangler. Radio’s on with some sick Pom-Pom’s song pumping out. We’re driving to who the hell cares when Pint-Sized turns to me. 

“So...where’re we gonna go?” 

Oh, the sweet innocence of youth. “We can go anywhere we want! Frankly, I’m looking forward to a bit of the open road after being cooped up.” 

“Didn’t you just get your apartment, like, six days ago?” 

Sheesh, this kid. 

“You’re starting to sound like ya don’t trust me. I’m hurt. I just had my fingers knuckle deep in your—

She put her hands up like someone had an AK-47 pointed at her. “Okay, okay! I just wanna know what we should do. Sue the fuck out of me after what I went through, wanting some stability.” 

Point taken. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the hunk of rock. “Good thing this didn’t burn up in your digestive juices, Cass.” It sparkles like Julia Roberts’ teeth. 

“How much do you think it’s worth?” She pointed. “There’s a pawn shop over there.” 

My turn to smile. If there’s one thing I love above a good breakfast sandwich, it’s showing off my smarts. “Well how ya do! Time for Lesson 38. When you’ve got friends in high places, use ‘em.” I stick the rock back in my pocket. “Although in this case, it’s a low friend in a high place. Or is it high friends in places to get low? Or mayb—“

“Harley.” 

“Sorry. I know. Focus. Now this friend—

“No! I mean the road!” 

And whaddya know! I almost rear ended an ice cream truck. Now that would have been a tragedy to rival Greta Gerwig being held to some stupid standard where she has to get a gold statue of a guy with no penis to prove her worth! Who needs that? 

Fifteen minutes and a jumpcut after that, we’re in the Palisades. Canary’s ride is parked on the street outside a high rise. Cass, naive little creature, walks towards the front doors. So I have to pull her back, waggling my pretty little finger. 

“Ah, ah, ah! We’ve gotta take the catwalk.”

And by catwalk, I mean the fire escape. All the stories up towards the penthouse. Cass clings to me like skintight vinyl. Which is a fun metaphor and a dead giveaway—at least it is if the title and tags I'm forcing this rube to write at gunpoint didn’t tip you off already. 

“Rule 39,” I say as we both topple into the balcony. “Get over your fear of heights.” 

There’s a swimming pool up here, which I think is unsafe. A cat perks it’s head in our direction from beside a splendiferous lounge. I waggle my fingers at the guard cat. “Don’t worry, Miss Kitty. I actually liked your movie. Mostly for the gray tomcat with the taut little bod.” 

“Wh-what are we—“ Cass still looks a little green. Poor thing. We’ll have to do some flooding exercises to get her over this phobia. 

In the meantime, I put my fingers to my lips. There’s someone spread out poolside with a vinyl player on the table beside them. Music plays—a classic Eartha Kitt ditty. Girlfriend had a threeway with James Dean and Paul Newman, wrote a Christmas song that spanned generations, and went on to voice Yzma in my fave Disney movie. I.Con.Ic. 

But she ain’t what we’re here for. We’re here for the gal sprawled out on the King Louis XIV divan. How do you describe her? Hmm...she looks like Rihanna sings, how’s that? Body like the Indy 500. Curves. Explosions. Michelle Pfeiffer; that white gold. 

She yawns, and gets up, her black print kimono open to reveal her bikini. She lifts cat’s eye eyeshades, and grins like...well, you know, like a Cheshire Cat. 

“Harley Quinn as I live and breathe,” Selina Kyle purrs. “And what brings you a-courtin’ on this fine day?” 

I pull the diamond out, smiling. “Need your expertise. Might cut you in on it. Just don’t ask where it came from, Sel. It ain’t nowhere near pretty as you.” 

And about there would be when it fades to black. 

**Author's Note:**

> If this movie doesn't make bank, I'm leaving the planet.


End file.
